In the oblivious Lethæan gulph,

Shall to futurity perhaps convey

This theme, and by these praises of my
Improve the Fathers of a distant age!

sire

ΤΟ

SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET,

MUCH INDISPOSED.

The original is written in a measure called Scazon, which signifies limping, and the measure is so denominated, because, though in other respects Iambic, it terminates with a Spondee, and has consequently a more tardy movement.

The reader will immediately see that this property of the Latin verse cannot be imitated in English.

My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along
Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song,

And lik'st that pace, expressive of thy cares,
Not less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs,

When, in the dance, she beats, with measur'd tread,
Heav'n's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed;

Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine

Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.
Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er
From his own nest, on Albion's stormy shore,
Where Eurus, fiercest of the Eolian band,
Sweeps, with ungovern'd rage, the blasted land,
Of late to more serene Ausonia came
To view her cities of illustrious name,

To prove, himself a witness of the truth,

How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth.
Much good, Salsillus! and a body free

From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,
Who now endur'st the languor, and the paius,
That bile inflicts, diffus'd through all thy veins,
Relentless malady! not mov'd to spare
By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air!

Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies, Pythius, or Pæan, or what name divine Soe'er thou chuse, haste, heal a priest of thine! Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills, that melt With vinous dews, where meek Evander dwelt! If aught salubrious in your confines grow, Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe, That, render'd to the Muse he loves, again He may enchant the meadows with his strain.

Numa, reclin'd in everlasting ease,
Amid the shade of dark embow'ring trees,
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire

His lov'd Ægeria, shall that strain admire :
So sooth'd, the tumid Tiber shall revere
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,
Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main

ΤΟ

GIOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO,

MARQUIS OF VILLA.

MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO.

Giovanni Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is an Italian nobleman of the highest estimation among his countrymen, for genius, literature, and military accomplishments. To him Torquato Tasso addressed his Dialogues on Friendship, for he was much the friend of Tasso, who has also celebrated him among the other princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Gerusa◄ lenme Conquistata, book xx.

Fra cavalier magnanimi, e cortesi,
Risplende il Manso.

During the Author's stay at Naples, he received at the hands of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civilities, and, desirous not to appear ungrateful, sent him this poem a short time before his departure from that city.

THESE verses also to thy praise the Nine,
Oh Manso happy in that theme design,
For, Gallus, and Mæcenas gone, they see
None such besides, or whom they love as thee,
And, if my verse may give the meed of fame,
Thine too shall prove an everlasting name.
Already such, it shines in Tasso's page
(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age,
And, next, the Muse consign'd, (not unaware
How high the charge,) Marino to thy care,
Who, singing, to the nymphs, Adonis' praise,
Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays.
To thee alone the poet would entrust
His latest vows, to thee alone his dust;
And thou with punctual piety hast paid,

In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade.
Nor this contented thee-but lest the grave

Should aught absorb of their's, which thou could'st save,
All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach

The life, lot, genius, character of each,

Eloquent as the Carian sage, who true

To his great theme, the life of Homer drew.

I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come Chill'd by rude blasts, that freeze my Northern home, Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim,

And thine, for Phœbus' sake, a deathless name.
Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye
A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sullen sky,
Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young,
To seek in Latium hearers of her song.

We too, where Thames with his unsullied waves
The tresses of the blue-hair'd Ocean laves,
Hear oft by night, or, slumb'ring, seem to hear,
O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling clear,
And we could boast a Tityrus of yore,

Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore.

Yes-dreary as we own our Northern clime,
E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme,
We too serve Phoebus; Phoebus has receiv'd,
(If legends old may claim to be believ'd)
No sordid gifts from us, the golden ear,
The burnish'd apple, ruddiest of the year,
The fragrant crocus, and to grace his fane,
Fair damsels chosen from the Druid train;
Druids, our native bards in antient time,
Who gods and heroes prais'd in hallow'd rhyme!